


satin in a coffin

by emptysodapopcan



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Choking, Dingle-Touching, GENERALLY really poisonous rythna """"relationship"""" stuff, M/M, Teencast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:10:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptysodapopcan/pseuds/emptysodapopcan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>alternative title: how to kill a snake</p>
            </blockquote>





	satin in a coffin

**Author's Note:**

> alternative-rock title: how to ask a boy out in 2.6k words

Rythian closes his eyes and lists places he’d rather be than in this room, on this night, with these people. Drowning at sea. Drowning in an oil spill at sea. Drowning in an oil spill at sea with a lit match. Back in reality he is surrounded by monsters in a small, hot room. He subjected himself to this, he reminds himself, how could he let himself forget? No friends to talk him into it, not this time. He reasoned the decision with an old cliché about friends and enemies, close and closer. Still, it had seemed like a mistake back then, and now, trapped in a room with half a dozen grinning beasts, bearing their teeth (millions of razors) at each other, at him, “mistake” didn’t seem like a strong enough word. Xephos, Honeydew (he knows, he knows they have long since outworn their titles, but Rythian is a creature of habit, always), blunt teeth and dull claws and soft words, completely harmless. Sips, Sjin, twin beasts, too preoccupied with each other to be dangerous right now, but Rythian keeps quiet all the same. A misplaced step could land him the teeth of both of them around his neck. So he keeps still, breaths even, and tries not to look at the fifth monster in the room. Lalna, a devious, poisonous snake, armed with twin daggers in his mouth, reminders that he could kill Rythian if he could just get close enough, but Rythian will never let him. Remember to breathe.

There is one saving grace: if Rythian is silent, is unmoving, he is invisible. It’s an old trick he developed with the intention of not getting called on in class, but has proved its usefulness far past that. It keeps this mission covert; he is, after all, just collecting information. Quiet breaths hitch when he feels the snake’s eyes on him again. Invisible to all but one. Lalna has been boring holes into Rythian all evening with masked eyes, but not with the mocking smirk he usually wears. Instead, his mouth is pulled into a thin, calculating line, and it is infinitely worse. Rythian won’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze, he keeps his eyes fixed on a corner of wall, marked with peeling paint and revealing an uglier color.

Lalna excuses himself (fellow beasts dismiss him with teases: “Have fun!” “Be safe!” “Don’t fall in!”), and slithers past Rythian on his way out of the room, pausing not even for a fraction of a second next to him, but Rythian notices it. He always notices. After he passes, Rythian spots a scrap of paper left on the carpet beside him. He makes an actual effort to not groan and roll his eyes. Everyone had told him he was the one with an obsession with theatrics, but Lalna was just as bad, probably worse.. He holds his breath before reaching for it. He feels attentions shift slightly in his direction, signs of a quickly fading spell, but he figures (he fears) he won’t need it much longer, anyway. With less hesitation, he snatches the fragment off the floor and inspects it.

“second floor, first door to the left. wait 5 min before following. dont say where ur going”

Like anyone would ask. As if he’s going, that is. He will not give Lalna the pleasure. He can’t just order Rythian around like he owns him. Gaze shifts to the analog clock hanging on the wall, only to find it stupidly decorative. Oversized, missing half the hands and all of the numbers. Silently cursing the fucking useless waste of someone’s money, Rythian rises to his feet and follows the snake’s patterns. Of course, of course, not without being noticed by the fox (though, he considers, perhaps a different predator would be better suited. The extended metaphor could still use some work, naturally).

“Off so soon, Rythian?” Sjin remarks. There is a “fuck you” bubbling up inside of Rythian, but he lets it die in his throat and swallows it.

“Well, you know, Sjin, when booty calls…” Sips says, and Sjin erupts into hysterics. Rythian grinds his teeth and continues on his way.

Hyena, then.

—

Rythian hesitates in front of the door. He’s just… he’s only here to tell Lalna to fuck off. His hand hovers over the door knob and he tries not to meet the gaze of his distorted reflection on the brass (or tin painted brass). He shouldn’t even be here. He’s been in this situation before, he should leave now, climb out the bathroom window before he’s pinned against a wall with Lalna’s foul breath hot on his neck, wishing he had. Breathe, fingers close around the doorknob and Rythian lets himself in.

Lalna’s room is a disaster, a proper health hazard, but he’s seen it before, familiarized himself with enemy territory. He finds the enemy in question seated comfortably on an unmade bed (juvenile bedsheets, cartoon dinosaurs), looking all too pleased with himself.

“Took you long enough,” he says in a way that makes Rythian’s gut lurch and blood boil (as if there’s a way that doesn’t).

Rythian grits his teeth and eyes the door. Quick in and out, then a grand escape through the cellar. “You’re—”

“Could you shut that?”

“What?” Rythian snaps back, half incredulous, half indignant.

“Come on, Rythian. Is some privacy really out of the question?”

“Oh, fuck off,” he spits, and makes a move to retreat. “Why am I even here?”

Lalna moves to cut off Rythian’s path of exit, shuts the door, and presses his back against it. “Don’t be like that,” he says with a dangerous grin.

“There’s nothing here for me. We both know what this is going to lead to,” broken nose and poisoned blood and empty heart, “and I’m sick of it,” he reaches for the doorknob again, and Lalna bats his hand away, and grabs his face with one hand, forcing Rythian to look him in the eyes.

“Are you breaking up with me?” Lalna teases.

Rythian swats his hand away. “Fuck off,” he repeats, and tries to push him away from the door.

Lalna pushes back, less playful this time. “Stop that. If there was nothing for you here, you wouldn’t have come all this way.”

Rythian rolls his eyes. “Yeah, it’s _such_ a long way—”

“You wouldn’t have come at all. Come on, give me some credit here. I think I know a thing or two about you.”

Privately, Rythian doesn’t doubt it. They’ve spent long enough trying to systematically destroy each other, they’ve both undoubtedly uncovered some dirt. Still, he doesn’t like the idea of being something that can be dissected, in any way. He closes the space between them (as infinitesimal as it previously was) and lowers his voice to a growl. “You don’t know anything.”

Clearly unimpressed, Lalna laughs and shoves Rythian off, sending him stumbling backwards. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic!” Rythian squawks.

“Then don’t get defensive.” Lalna moves to corner Rythian, moves to switch positions, and of course it was going to end up this way. Lalna will make snide comments while he exposes Rythian’s skin to tear at it and burn holes in it, backing him into a corner. Trapped rat, poisonous snake. Following tradition, Lalna moves first. He takes a fistful of fabric, and unveils the whole of Rythian’s face like a showcase. It’s always a shock, Rythian always anticipates it but it’s still always a shock, and panic grapples at him and allows Lalna to back him against the wall. 

Lalna runs careful fingers over scar tissue. “You’re fucked, aren’t you,” he says with mock-tenderness, but it’s there to mask real pity, both creating two red-hot coals of anger to surface in Rythian’s heart, and they burn away the shock for something more volatile. He acts quickly.

With bared teeth, Rythian shoves back an unsuspecting Lalna, sending him cascading onto the carpeted floor. He drops like a rock, lands with the sound of air leaving lungs. Even on the carpet, it sounds painful. Oh, it sounds painful. Rythian pauses for a moment, partially to revel in this, mostly to catch his breath, before straddling him, squeezing soft stomach between his legs. The Lalna in his head tells him not to look so damn pleased about it; the Lalna on the floor just gasps for lost air.

“You shit,” Lalna-on-the-floor manages to wheeze out. “Not fair. Not fair!”

“Not fair? You’re one to talk.” Often outnumbered, caught off guard and vulnerable, Rythian tries not think about it.

“Fuck—” wheezing gasp. “Fuck off. Give your speech and get it over with.”

Of course, sleepless nights (and days) had been spent predicting this moment, rough drafting monologues in his head, but in his crowning hour, they fail to surface.

“Nothing, then?” Lalna laughs. The rough fall could only result in temporary silence, and his vile hiss had to reemerge eventually, but that doesn’t make Rythian hate it any less. His previous swell of pride is replaced by one of anger, and he tries for something more permanent. 

He is not gentle. He wraps eight long fingers around Lalna’s neck, two thumbs to crush his windpipe. He squeezes, chokes, and wonders where you’d have to squeeze to strangle a snake. He’s winning, he’s won, and Lalna should know that, but he still makes desperate attempts to get a rise out of Rythian. Face flushed, he gags out his name. Rythian scowls as he feels something (he knows what, he knows what) shift behind him.

“I can’t believe you’re getting off to this,” Rythian says, moving forward a bit. Lalna chokes out a laugh at that, but Rythian cuts it off prematurely, shifting his weight and crushing soft neck completely. The fun ends immediately, and a familiar panic fills Lalna’s eyes. His fingers scrabble to pry away Rythian’s own, fingernails chewed to oblivion, hopelessly trying to gain purchase, and at last! At long fucking last, Rythian gets to play the predator, and lord knows he has waited long enough. If he takes advantage of every opportunity presented to him, he’ll never have to again.

Struggles get weak, Rythian can see Lalna’s oxygen-starved brain hanging on desperately to life, but hopelessly. His face has turned a dangerous color, Rythian can feel his skin get clammy, lose warmth. His mouth is open, trying desperately for air, and Rythian notes with a hysterical laugh, that he looks like a fish! Beached fish, flayed fish, dead fish. Nothing is more satisfying. He’s going to do it. He’s really going to do it this time. There were many ways he could’ve, lord knows he’s thought of them all, but strangling a snake on its own territory seems most fitting. A cheap thrill rushes through him as Lalna’s fingers lose the strength to hold on.

“This is what you get,” Rythian says, doubtful that Lalna can even hear. It doesn’t matter, it’s not really for him, anyway. “This is what you get! After… after all these years. You deserve something worse.” 

Lalna doesn’t respond, and as a matter of fact, he’s completely unresponsive. Eyes fluttered shut, jaw gone slack, this is it. That was that? It’s done, it’s—

Rythian pulls his hands away, slowly rises to his feet, and stumbles backwards a few steps only to fall flat on his ass a few feet away. A few hysteric giggles bubble out of him at the impact, but hardly registers them. Clambering to his feet again, Rythian backs himself against the wall, for support this time. He scans the room for the scarf Lalna had take from him… had it only been minutes ago? when his eyes catch on something else purple, but still definitely belonging to him. A ring of bruises decorate Lalna’s (the body’s? It feel more tactful, but he doubts he deserves tact) lifeless neck, and it feels like a final claim of ownership. Which, he knows, is such a sickeningly Lalnian thought, and it makes him uneasy, but only as much as it fills him with righteous excitement, a victorious energy, even. For so long had Lalna strived to mark him as his territory— a crude phrase that equates with the uncivilized competition of animals, but still fitting— and at long last, Rythian returns the favor. His! That body is his now, dead as it may be, but even better, maybe. An influx of excited chemicals saturate his brain, and later he’ll blame it on a number of cliches (heat-of-the-moment, acting-on-impulse), but right now, the feeling pounds through him, and something responds, twitching to life. He palms his dick through his jeans (inhale sharply, bite down on free hand), and finds it harder than he’d ever admit, not in a million years, not on his death bed. Absently, he wonders if anyone will avenge Lalna’s death.

Thoughts of repercussions surface and Rythian sends them scattering as fast as he can with a swift stroke (hiss out a curse, bite harder). He tries not to hate himself for this, tries to convince himself that he’s not jerking it over a dead body. (“That’s sure what it looks like,” Lalna-in-his-head taunts. Even in death!) Thrumming heart pumps adrenaline through his shaking body and he’s getting hysteric. Breathe; gasp for air. 

A pressure builds in the pit of him, and he bites so hard he nearly breaks skin. Retreat, sink to the floor.

He cards a hand through his hair and tries to even his breath. He’ll have to leave the room eventually, alone, and not look like he had killed someone. He knows he’ll be caught eventually, but he’ll run fast. Headline murderer, Teen Killer! It’s worth it. He thinks it’s worth it. Oh, Christ. Oh, shit. Breathe. Fuck!

Something moves, he thinks, something infinitesimal, out of the corner of his eye, and he freezes. Lalna’s ghost, back from the grave to take him with. The same thing coughs, and Rythian screams.

“Shit,” a too-familiar wheeze, and nerves strung too tight snap.

“No!” Rythian screeches, backed against the furthest wall from Lalna’s body (Lalna!) and not remembering how he got there. Lalna sits up unsteadily, side-eyeing Rythian’s tantrum and nursing a bruised neck (mark of failure, now).

Rythian splutters out panicked fragments, bits and pieces of shock and devastation. Lalna waits for a break between them, a resting beat, before speaking. “I can’t believe you fucking tried to kill me.”

This interruption leaves time for Rythian to compile a solid, whole thought. “You’re shit!”

“I can’t believe you tried to kill me, and failed!” Poisonous laugh!

“Stop!” He screams, and the very worst part is, Lalna does. The cocky, smug, disgusting grin slides off his face to be replaced with something worse, and Rythian doesn’t even dare to say the word—

Instead, he scrambles messily, clumsily to his feet, and clambers his way to the door. He clutches the doorknob, tightly as if it’s the only thing grounding him, and hesitates for only a half-second before wrenching it open and stumbling through. 

“Wait, you fucking— wait!”

And he does, despite himself. “What,” he forces out.

Learning in the doorway, still as proud as ever, Lalna fucking properly leers at him. “No good-bye kiss? C’mon.”

In his memoir, he’ll boast about not dignifying that with an answer. In truth, head already swimming with all the dreadful things that had just happened, had happened ever, he can’t even manage one. Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he leaves with as much of a flourish as he can manage, hurrying past four silent monsters, and hoping for storms.

—

The next day, Lalna wears the bruises like a fucking metal of honor, and let everyone know who pinned it to him. Rythian daydreams about ripping the flesh right off. He finds his forgotten scarf in a paper bag taped to his locker, and with a handwritten note he didn’t even bother to read. As a matter of fact, he escapes school early and ventures into his backyard to uncover a mostly forgotten fire pit, not formally used in half-a-decade and full of sacrificial ashes. He watches as the entire sack is burnt to nothing. Ceremonial cleansing. Back to square one.


End file.
